


An Act of Mercy

by Shirokokuro



Series: If That Happens, I'll Catch You [8]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bruce "What is Awkwardness" Wayne, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I felt really bad for him when I was proofreading this... O-O, Meaning Tim gets whumped, Only plot twist it's Bruce on fear toxin, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), That's very twisty, The level of angst is shameful, Tim Drake is Robin, Tim is awkward and trying his best, Whump, oooooh, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 22:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19036840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: "You're gonna be okay," Tim keeps saying. "I'm here. We're almost home. You're gonna be okay."Or, that time Bruce gets hit with Fear Toxin.





	1. Chapter 1

Tim has driven before. He did a few laps once with Alfred the other month, something relatively normal for a thirteen-year-old. But a supped-up, high-powered war machine like the one he's in now? Yeah, the only thing in the Batmobile Tim really feels confident operating are the monitors and  _maybe_ the cup holders. It still stands that he can probably take the car apart and reassemble it by memory (Bruce almost made him do it once.), but when it comes to actually driving it, that'll have to be a no. His bike doesn't fit two people, however—not in his and Bruce's condition, anyway—so this is how it has to be.

Everything else is telling him it's an awful idea regardless. His growing headache and fuzzing vision insist he shouldn't be operating a vehicle at all, say the road signs that flash in the headlights aren't good for a concussion, and there's a plethora of other things that are determined to make driving impossible.

Bruce is 6'2"; Tim is 5'1". That foot of difference is mountainous right now, as in the chaos, Tim didn't have time to shift the seat up and forward. By now, he's too terrified to make the attempt, and he's settling for slouching half-way down the cushions just to reach the pedals. He can already feel his neck muscles aching from the strain, because that lowered vantage point means most of the road has been reduced to a handsome horizon of steering wheel.

Even worse, he's got school tomorrow.

And he's pretty sure he's failing physics.*

"Don't worry, Bruce," Tim encourages, more to himself than the half-conscious person beside him. "We'll get there. You'll be alright."

There's no response, just a collection of murmuring from where Bruce has his head against the car window, face strained. Tim pulls the scraps of his attention together enough to refocus on the road.

He'll turn on the auto function in another mile. Tim wants to be sure he's lost whatever remains of Scarecrow's men, because as soon as the autopilot takes over, the car'll be making a beeline straight for the nearest entrance to the Batcave, and Alfred doesn't appreciate uninvited guests—least of all ones with guns.

So, for at least the next minute, Tim's in the driver's seat; he's making the decisions, because Bruce isn't in any state to do much more than try to keep sane until the antidote kicks in.

Tim isn't really fairing much better. But he's not going to think about that.

Instead, he takes a turn, the kind that's just a tad (maybe a lot of tads) too sharp, and one of the wheels pops up onto the curb for an instant before slamming back against the pavement. The jostling urges his headache to kick in the door and reintroduce itself to his occipital lobes. For a horrifying second, Tim thinks he's going to black out right then and there—not a good plan, really—and his hand flies to the autopilot, because it doesn't matter if someone's tailing them and finds the cave. The place isn't much use if they crash before they can even get there.

It's almost like magic how the car immediately rights itself. For another moment, Tim watches the headlights spearhead the shadowed pavement, convincing himself the car can drive itself better than he can right now, before slumping back against the seat. He's still seeing stars from when the back of his head collided with a brick wall. Bruce'll probably feel sorry about that in a few hours, but in the man's defense, he wasn't in his right mind at the time.

Tim's eyes crawl over to where his partner remains belted in the passenger seat. He's still not with it, honestly, continuously muttering random syllables under his breath, because this strain of Fear Toxin is brand new. Colorless. Odorless. And a whole lot stronger.

They weren't expecting that. Tim also wasn't expecting that when Bruce told him to hang back, he'd find the man minutes later raving in ways that clashed scarily with the calm, calculated person Tim's come to know.

At least there's one thing going for them: It seems the old antidote works somewhat. It's not much, but it'll have to be enough, because that's all they've got.

In the meantime, Bruce is here, and Tim doesn't want to imagine what kind of things his partner is seeing from where he's got his eyes pulled closed against the cowl. The expression doesn't look right, not on Bruce. It drives Tim to finagle with his seat belt and shift over to the tight space between where the man is sitting and the dashboard. Instantly, Tim's brain reminds him it's another bad idea of his, and the road is more than happy to agree. A pothole kicks the wheels up, stubborn enough that the shock absorbers forget what their name is and the window decides it's got to be the thing to absorb Tim instead. The bullet-proof glass catches his shoulder with as much grace as the brick wall that landed him here, crouched over, concussed, and on the brink of passing out. This—This really wasn't the exciting night of crime-fighting Tim had planned.

It's too late to change it, though. He's already here, and his partner needs something.

"Bruce, whatever you're seeing," Tim manages, looking Bruce dead-on as best he can through the haze, "it's not real. It's just you and me, and you're gonna be okay." He hopes they are. Tim can already see the road shifting through the back window, knows they're almost to the alley where the wall will fold up and they'll see Alfred. Just another minute.

"You're safe," Tim works out, "Alf'll get you fixed up, and I promise I'll..." The teenager's vision bursts into a hot kaleidoscope of white and grey, prompting him to stop until it clears. It doesn't, and he realizes proprioception is nothing more than a sweet memory, like his limbs are lost in space. It all leaves Tim half in Bruce's lap, trying to maintain a semblance of strength, but in all honesty, he doubts it's working. "…I promise I'll buff out the scratches I got on the car, so don't worry." Tim tries a laugh to lighten the mood, but humor's not going for him either. Bruce still looks uncharacteristically haunted, marred by distress, and Tim's lungs tell him that laugh just used up his last stash of oxygen.

He tries to take another breath. Hardly anything comes.

Now that he thinks about it, maybe it's not such a bad thing Bruce is out of it. Tim would really hate for his partner to see him like this, head resting on Bruce's knees and praying that the bit of lessened altitude will somehow make the air dense enough to breathe again. As expected, it doesn't. Tim's left struggling to focus on the cool Kevlar that's sitting against his forehead and the words that are washing over his ears, not registering, but he knows they're his own.

"You're gonna be okay," he keeps saying. "I'm here. We're almost home. You're gonna be okay."

Everything's tunneling. It's not an encouraging thought, but it's kind of…nice. The pain's ebbing away, and his head feels warm, a comforting sort of hot like being thawed out beside a fire, heating his skin and his blood and his thoughts, because they're all melting away into nothing. At the end of the day, there's only one thing anchoring him here, and that's Bruce. The man can't protect himself, not like this, so it's Tim's responsibility. He's Tim's partner. Tim is supposed to be a rock for him, a support, and despite the fact all sounds are fading, blacking out too, that much is still clear.

Tim's not sure who'll be the one to find them like this, weak as kittens. It could still be Scarecrow for all he knows, and when a new light filters in through the passenger door, when Tim feels himself being pulled up by his shoulders, his mind's screaming for him to move.

He tries to shove the new form away, because Bruce needs him to be tough enough for the both of them. The resistance doesn't do much, however. Instead, Tim's skull shrieks that it's going to split clean open from the effort. A pair of hands catch him before he becomes good friends with the floor.

"Master Timothy," someone hisses, and…

"Alfred?"

Tim's trying to concentrate on the familiar face through the fuzzy static that's crowding out his vision. He instantly regrets the attempt ( _Have the cave's lights always been this bright?_ ), and he snaps his eyes closed again.

Thankfully, Alfred's the type to act first, ask questions later, and it truly isn't a minute later that Tim's found himself directed to a treatment bench. Although it's only been a short while, he forgot how nice sitting down is. It's making the nausea fade, and the world's stopped spinning as much. He'll count that as a plus.

Somewhere along the line, his mask has been taken off, vanished, and Alfred's face swims into his line of sight. It computes vaguely that he's checking to see how blown out Tim's pupils are. Judging by the ambiguous sound that resonates in the man's throat, Tim's guessing they must not be bad enough for him to panic, but Alfred's still scrutinizing them anyway. Some people say the eyes are the window to the soul; for Alfred, they're the quickest way to check for hemorrhaging.

After another moment, a few fingers slip behind Tim's head, feeling for bumps along his skull and bruising behind his ears. "Explain."

Alfred's kind, patient and empathetic in ways that make him a relaxing person to be around, so Tim knows there's no way that one word was said half as loud as it sounded. Still, it's enough to send an earthquake through Tim's eardrums, and when the teenager opens his mouth to reply, his own voice is just as painful. "Bruce," he says, wincing at the sound. "New Fear Toxin. Got knocked around trying to calm him down's all."

That's as much as Alfred needs to hear to prove Tim's able to hold a conversation, so the teenager doesn't say more, instead getting lost in the soothing sensation of nimble fingers brushing away the pain.

There's a long pause as the Englishman waits, still combing through black hair, before the hands pull away. "Rest," he orders simply. Tim opens his mouth to argue. He's got class in a few hours, and his attendance is already on the brink of unsalvageable….

Alfred's two steps ahead of him. "As tempting as the drama of junior high may be, I can assure you that's not the stimulation your mind is needing presently." The man taps Tim's shoulder gently, wordlessly telling him this isn't a battle the teenager's going to win. "Rest," he repeats, and then he's gone.

He's probably wandered off to handle Bruce, Tim thinks. The teenager contemplates standing up to see if his partner is any better, if he can offer any help, because the kind of pain Bruce is in is ten times worse than his own. Tim moves to slip his feet back onto the floor when his vision flickers monochrome, and… maybe laying down isn't such a bad idea after all.

He's out the minute his head hits the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"And I think I'm failing Physics." - Tim Drake, Robin #88
> 
> Tim's character file from when he was staying in Bristol Commons (around 14 y/o) says he's 5'1" and 115 lbs. Bruce is practically twice the size of him, and I can't stop thinking about that.


	2. Chapter 2

One of the hands clicks forward.

The grandfather clock in the study is kindly reminding Tim that he's already missed his first two classes. It's a fact he's taking a moment to lament, kissing his once-good grades good-bye, because there's a quiet guilt that comes with watching the time tick by when he should be in math, staring at a whiteboard instead of a clock face. Tim keeps telling himself he's got a concussion, though (Alfred's right to say that kind of thing deserves rest.), so he can't go. But at the very least the thirteen-year-old hoped he could be asleep.

However, being under Alfred's care means constant observation that's more out of caution than anything else. Head injuries aren't anything to sneeze at, and thus, every two hours, Tim's found himself awakened by a concerned Englishman who's making sure Tim's maintained the gift that is consciousness. The teenager's still in the Manor and not in the ER, so it's no secret that those intervals yielded only a mildly-cranky sidekick and a circadian rhythm that's saying right now's the perfect time to be awake.

It's not.

But Tim's here anyway.

His headache's still present, too, a constant throb that's copiously dumping pain into his cranium like Halloween candy into a jack-o-lantern bucket. The lidocaine from his stitches is long gone as well, and—Gosh, he just wants to sleep.

He came upstairs in search of food that would help with that, changing clothes while he was at it. Sadly, nothing's worked, and Tim's left in the study even more tired and now wearing one of Dick's old college sweatshirts. Admittedly, the clothing's a bit big. A tear's worn its way through the ribbing on the cuff, too, but Tim doesn't mind. He's thumbing the hole as he rotates the grandfather clock forward to 10:48.

The entrance opens up just like he knew it would, and the teenager's wandering down the steps to the cave, careful fingertips sweeping the wall beside him for support.

"Is he any better?" Tim asks the instant Alfred becomes visible.

The man looks tired as he sighs in return. Between fussing over the both of them, it's no question Alfred hasn't slept a wink all night. "The Master's awake," he finally voices, "but I'm afraid the most we can do is wait for the toxin to run its course. No need to worry," Alfred adds quickly, noting the unease that's slipped across Tim's face. "He's quite tame last I checked. Perhaps only a few more hours will do it."

The teenager offers a slow nod, exhaling delicately. "You think it's okay if I see him?"

One of Alfred's eyebrows rises. Tim already knows what the man's implying, so he wastes no time amending, "I'll sleep right after, I promise."

The eyebrow lowers.

"Very well," Alfred waves off. "I'll be upstairs on call with Lucius. I doubt the Master will be making any appearance at Wayne Enterprises today."

Tim watches the man leave for another moment before weaving through the cave to the med bay. The whole room is lit by only the dimmest lights, and there's the faintest chemical scent mixed in with laundry detergent—a byproduct of the clean bed sheets. It's a smell that instantly makes Tim feel a bit better. (Feeling like Alfred's nearby will do that for anyone.) But then, Tim spies the person on one of the beds.

Bruce is awake. That shouldn't be surprising, but it is because of the intensity on his face. He's sitting upright and watching the bedspread like it'll come alive and strangle him the moment he looks away. Maybe that's what he's really thinking, and the observation darkens the whole space.

Bruce remains quiet. Tim isn't convinced that's a good thing.

"Hey," the teenager tries lightly. The effort doesn't garner a reply; Bruce didn't even hear him from how it looks. So, Tim waits in the entrance for another minute, eyes running over the man's face. Bruce's jaw is tight, eyes downcast as he continues to scrutinize the sheets, and his breathing is slow, calm.

That last one's a heartening sign. But Tim continues to pull at the loose threads surrounding the hole in his sleeve, unsure if he should re-announce himself or let the man be. Leaving Bruce alone means leaving him alone with his demons, whatever they are, and at the thought of that, Tim opens his mouth again.

"Bruce?" he manages, just a bit louder, as he takes a hesitant step forward.

This time works. Haggard eyes snap upward, a fervent gravity swirling in them, and it's so intense that Tim almost backpedals. Almost. He forces himself to stay rooted in the doorway, because moving too fast suddenly seems dangerous. Bruce doesn't get that look. Not like that. So, Tim remains frozen there, muscles tightening in preparation while he wonders what Bruce is seeing, what's making him look at Tim with that kind of broiling focus that's unpredictable and markedly not Batman—not Bruce. What is it he's seeing?

They face off for what feels like an eternity, Tim wondering and Bruce staring, until the man finally utters a name.

"…Jason."

It's instinct for Tim's gaze to shoot over his own shoulder, to look for the memorial case that he already knows isn't visible behind him. He's hoping it's there anyway, anything else for Bruce to be looking at and calling for his son, because Tim's praying it's anything other than himself.

But of course, only a stone wall greets the teenager's eyes.

Tim slowly turns his head back, and—No. Bruce is looking right at him. A sort of hopefulness is written on the man's face that's so concentrated it borders on the hopeless instead.

Tim knows what Bruce is seeing. And Tim also knows it's not true. Sure, they've both got blue eyes and black hair and goofy grins that appear sometimes, but it still stands.

Tim's not Jason.

Tim's predecessor is someone he respects in the same way he respects Dick. He's respected the two of them ever since he was a kid sitting out late at night with a Polaroid and a silent hope that he'd see Batman and Robin out. Just a glimpse was enough to make his jaw drop, to make him look up to them like they were gods and he was only someone grateful to exist in the same world as them. Never with them. Never beside them. Just there.

So, Tim respects Jason.

But he's not Jason.

It's something that's obvious any time Bruce turns, says, "Robin," and there's a momentary gleam in the man's eyes that lasts only as long as it takes for them to set on Tim. Because Tim knows what Bruce thinks when he says that title,  _who_  he thinks of. It's gotten better over the months, over time, but Tim knows.

Bruce is still looking for Jason. He never stopped, and something about that—about being out on missions and seeing that instant where Bruce's expression falters when he sees Tim there instead, over a year since Jason passed away and Tim became Robin, about standing here now in front of Bruce and being mistaken for someone he's not and can't ever be, it—It…

It makes him feel cheated.

A sharp pain sears his chest for a minute, and Tim lies and says the concussion has somehow worked its way down there, that there's a medical reason for the way it feels like his lungs have filled with fluid and his heart has stopped. But there's no medical explanation for this, and Tim hates himself for just that moment, because he's actually wishing he could be someone else—wishing he could be his predecessor instead of who he's stuck being.

Because Bruce never looks at Tim that way. He probably never will, and it's stupid, and it hurts, and Tim's asking himself why he's suddenly jealous of someone who's dead, asking himself when he cared so much because he and Bruce—They're professionals. That's all their relationship is, and it's obvious, and Tim accepted that. They're nothing more than that, not family, not father-son, not anything. 

Then why does he feel like he's been cheated out of something?

Tim already knows why, but he keeps telling himself it's a mystery. The mystery's the thing that's causing his heart to rise to his throat and sink to his feet at the same time. He's telling himself that it's something unexplainable and that that makes it easier to think of Bruce in the same way he always has: It's just another mystery that he has to solve but secretly never wants to.

It doesn't make the ache go away.

All Tim can do is look back at someone who can't even see him—if he ever even did. Bruce is gazing at him still with that desperate expression, and it hits that the way things are now, there's no reasoning with the man. He'll remember Jason in the morning, remember Joker and the bomb and the year of heartbreak. But at this moment, Bruce doesn't remember, would probably lose it if he did; he's on who knows what kind of hallucinogen, staring at someone ten feet in front of him that he's convinced is his son but really isn't. Never has been. Never will be.

 _He's dead, Bruce_. Tim wants to say. _It's just me. It's just…It's…_

"Yeah," he answers, "it's me."

There's a long moment of pause that follows the statement. Tim lets it be, steeling his face against that emotion swirling in him, the one doesn't want to identify as heartache.

The admission's a lie, but it's a sympathetic one. Because Tim can't give Bruce a lot. The man's lost his son, and from where Bruce sits, Tim is that one person he'd do anything to get back. And as much as Tim wants to be honest, to say Jason's gone and end the fantasy Bruce is trapped in, Tim's not sure how much good it'd do. Because if Bruce were hearing that from Tim, Bruce could take it. But if Bruce were hearing that from Jason, hearing it from someone he  _thinks_  is Jason, Bruce… He might not be able to handle that.

Tim knows as much, and he's hoping what he's doing is an act of mercy instead of white cruelty cast in a white lie. He's hoping Bruce will wake up in the morning, convinced it will all have been a dream, and that'll be the end of it. But when Bruce lifts his hand, hesitantly entreating him to come closer, Tim immediately regrets being here.

Jason should be here.

But it's Tim instead that moves forward, recognizing he's past the point of no return, and it's Tim's hand that moves to greet the tips of Bruce's fingers, testing the water because he's certain that at this distance, his smaller frame and too-long hair will be visible—enough to discern the difference that Tim keeps saying exists between himself and Jason, because right now, it's a mile wide and painfully obvious.

Bruce is memorizing his face, relearning it as Tim moves his hand just a bit closer. And then, there's a terrifying moment, one in which a stronger hand slips past his own to grab his forearm, and Tim thinks he's made a mistake, remembers Bruce is still hallucinating and unpredictable, because he's being yanked forward at a speed that makes his mind snap to the instant something similar happened. The teenager's remembering a few hours prior in which Tim was convinced Bruce wouldn't hurt him only to find his head cracked against a slab of brick.

But that isn't what happens: The only thing that happens is he's somehow found his way into Bruce's arms, vision obscured by collarbone and ears flooded with the sounds of fifty different apologies that aren't meant for him. They're not, but Tim's immediately filled with a panicky need to address every last one of them, because they're apologies that have been haunting Bruce for over a year. Jason should be the one to answer them, to say "it's okay" and "it's not your fault" and "you did everything you could." Jason should know Bruce misses him this much, should know Bruce has so many regrets and wants them to be solved when they can't be.

Because Jason's dead.

Jason's dead, and Tim's just the replacement, the runner-up, the second-place. He's the third Robin that's forever on third base, waiting to run home on a pitch that'll never come; he'll never get the chance.

"It's okay," Tim works out. He's certain his voice is cracking, because he can feel the sodium sting of tears leaking down his face, can feel the tightness in his throat and the way his arms have worked their way around Bruce too.

It's a message from the grave, Tim tells himself. It's what Jason would want and what Bruce needs to hear. But no matter how doggedly he tells himself that, how close he is to believing it, it's only making it more apparent that this isn't where he wants to be, but  _it is_.

Because Dad's in a coma, off somewhere in a world separate from Tim like he's always been, and Mom is nothing more than the moment before a sunset, something he's looking back on and wishing he could have just another second to get to know better. Tim's alone. Has been for a long time, and this is what he's been wanting. He's wanted it all his life but not like this. Because this is the only time he can remember someone holding him this way, like he's something too precious to let go, and after all these years of waiting and waiting, it's not even for him.

They've both been cheated out of something, because Bruce is here, convinced he's with the son he can never have. And Tim's here with the father he's slowly realizing he can't have either.

"It's okay," Tim repeats, running it over and over to himself that they're nothing and this is just a moment of weakness that means nothing.  _It's nothing. It's nothing._  But he wishes it could be something.

Bruce has calmed down by now, the words fading into strong arms that are still whispering apologies in the form of breaths and heartbeats. "Stay," he says, and Tim's not sure if it's a question or an order or a plea.

"I'll stay," Tim replies promptly. It's another lie. Tim already understands he'll be gone by the time Bruce wakes up, understands all evidence of this has to be burned and buried and never dug back up. Because Tim's certain he'll break if he has to do this again. He can already feel the throb of invisible stitches being torn open around his heart, memories resurfacing of himself waiting in front of a door for Mom and Dad to come home only to realize they'll be gone another week, another month. Another lifetime. By this point, he thought those memories had died, but they're still there. All that's changed is that the actors have switched, that now Tim is waiting for Bruce to notice him like he's noticed Dick or Jason. But they're not father and son. They're not family. They're not anything.

They're people that would lay down their lives for each other, that dice with death on a nightly basis, and Tim's asking himself when this happened. Because somewhere in that chaos of switchblades and bullets and screams, he broke his only rule: Don't care about something you can't have.

Bruce is the definition of that rule, and of course, he's the one person Tim broke it for.

How long ago he broke it, he's not sure, but it leaves him here broken too. It leaves him wishing the world could be different and that somehow this was really meant for him. But it's not. He keeps reminding himself of that, because this isn't for him. It's for Bruce, and it's for Jason, and there's only one thing he can think of that Bruce would need to hear, that Jason would want to say, and he's struggling to form the words.

"I…"

He swallows hard, willing the phrase to come but it's stuck somewhere in his chest.

"I…."

It's for Jason. It's not for Tim, so he should just…

"I love you, Dad."

It's the only time Tim will be able to say that. Bruce won't remember it. He'll wake up and think it was Jason when it was Tim all along, so this is the safest place to admit it, to say something that's been on his mind for months but has kept beating down. Because Tim tells himself the words are Jason's, that the meaning is something nebulous that doesn't apply to him. But they're his words. They're his.

They must do something, because the arms tighten just a bit more, close the millimeter of distance that Tim didn't realize had existed between them before but must have. "Stay," Bruce repeats, firm but still unsure. He's not letting go.

"I will, I will," Tim nods against collarbone. It's still a lie. He'll be gone the instant Bruce is asleep, the instant the moment passes. So until then, he lets a blanket be pulled over him and stays, doesn't move. He's waiting for the breathing under his ear to even out, for the grip around his shoulders to loosen, and Tim doesn't even realize his own is doing the same.  _It's just until he falls asleep_ , Tim keeps thinking.  _It's just until then_.

He wasn't counting that he'd fall asleep too.


	3. Chapter 3

There's a faint drumming pulsing against his head. Tim thinks it's an alarm clock maybe or perhaps Alfred is trying to wake him up again. He's not sure, since the sound's so soft. But it's gentle, a sweet platitude that's normal for everyone but Tim. He's never heard it before—not like this, so he listens. The sound reminds him of the kind things Dick does, of bright smiles and warm hugs that are strong as sunshine. Dick could be the one here, his brain registers. There's  _someone_  here. Tim knows as much, but right now, he's too tired to open his eyes, content listening and dozing and guessing who it is that's holding him so close…

"Tim."

A floodgate of memories open up.

It's instinct for Tim to push himself away, horrified, because it clicks that the sound is a heartbeat and the person is Bruce. His boss.  _Batman_. It clicks that Tim was supposed to disappear before this happened. Now, there's just guilt mixed in with panic.

He moves fast, too fast, and his breath hitches when he realizes he's about to collide with cement floor. Someone catches him, though, helps him back onto the bed. The person's Bruce. Bruce is awake. How—How long ago did that happen?

Tim wishes he could turn invisible on command, breaking under the odd panic of having been open with someone he shouldn't have. Bruce is his mentor, not his... _not his dad_ , and if there's one thing Bruce taught him, it's how to vanish. It's second nature to disappear and forget, but there are already hands on his shoulders, pinning him there in harmony with calculating eyes. He can't fade away under that kind of gaze, too noticeable and too intelligent, and the quiet lasts too long.

"...It was you, wasn't it? All along?"

It's less a question than a statement, so Tim doesn't reply. Instead, he shrinks into himself enough to indicate that Bruce's suspicion is correct. Tim's the smart one. That's what Dick says, and Tim's questioning how true the words are. If he was smart, he wouldn't be here. He wouldn't have crossed that invisible line between himself and Bruce that defines them as people who orbit each other and never cross paths. That way, he never would have thought of Bruce as more of a dad than his real one.

Another wave of guilt strikes Tim at the thought. He shouldn't have… Dad's  _still alive_. But they've been apart for so long, and Bruce is here, closer and more present than anything else.

Dad's already been gone for what feels like all of Tim's life, so…

Is it so wrong that he wants to move on?

A thumb drags over the bandage running around Tim's head, and the touch brings him back. His eyes snap to Bruce's. There's little emotion there, calm and detached, and the observation helps dispel some of the tension in Tim's shoulders. Bruce isn't angry. A bit somber, maybe. Tired. But not angry.

"I did this?" the man asks eventually, still thumbing linen.

"It—It didn't hurt much," Tim dodges, vision flickering down to his own lap where his hands sit. "You were in worse shape, to be honest—with the toxin and all."

Bruce hums grimly. His hand falls away, and Tim hates himself for missing the contact. "You drove?"

The teenager nods, teasing a loose string on his sweatshirt sleeve. "I didn't crash; the car's still in one piece." Tim can't say the same for a few trash cans, but Bruce doesn't need to know that.

It's the man's turn to nod, slow and methodical. "We'll work on your driving," he offers. 

Tim's eyes flash up. That—That's something a parent does: teaches their kid to drive. The realization sits for a minute.

"Yeah," Tim breathes, "that'd be cool."

"Not for three weeks, though." Bruce lightly taps his own forehead, a gesture that reminds Tim of his aching head. He almost forgot: Robin'll probably be benched for a while. "You should go back to sleep."

"…Right," Tim admits quietly, the awkwardness returning. He's already perched on a mattress surrounded by still-warm blankets, but Bruce is here. It feels wrong to run off or shift onto another one of the beds. Staying feels equally wrong, though, like he's intruding on something. Bruce's eyes are underlined by hollow half-moons, and he needs to rest too.

Bruce gives one of those careful sighs he makes on occasion, hesitant, as he closes his eyes with ambiguous finality. Tim ponders what it means for a minute until Bruce shifts. A hand reaches around him and pulls him in to rest against the man's side, impersonal but…from Bruce, it means everything.

"Stay," he decides calmly, and Tim can feel the air move in Bruce's chest when he says it. It's a simple word. Tim has to dissect it anyway, parse it and split it. Bruce…Bruce knows this is him. He knows it's Tim and not Jason, right?

And yet, the professionalism of crime-fighting is ebbing away. It's dissolving in gentle lights and the lull of someone else's breathing, stable and certain. Bruce is saying this is okay.

Is it really okay to be this close to him?

Tim's still not convinced, but his muscles uncoil just a bit, relax into the inside of Bruce's shoulder. Maybe he's imagining it, but it feels like the grip tightens a fraction, telling him this is fine and that Bruce won't let him fall. He's holding him as if Tim's something fragile that'll vanish the moment he lets go.

Tim analyzes the comparison for a minute, trying to hide the emotional caution that's fading more with every passing breath, because this… Maybe he and Bruce are more than just vigilantes, more than just partners out stopping crime. Maybe somewhere along the line, Bruce started caring too. Started looking at Tim less as a partner and more…more like a son.

His skin warms at the thought. It could still be untrue, but the arms holding him steady against a rising and falling chest tell him otherwise. Tell him he's safe. Tell him here's where he belongs, dozing between the smell of the sweatshirt he's wearing, the blankets spread over him, and Bruce beside him. It's like being surrounded by Dick and Alfred and Bruce, all three of his favorite people, and maybe this really is where he belongs.

Maybe he's home.

Tim's pulled closer, because he can feel himself dropping off, can feel his eyelids fluttering shut against his desire to stay awake, to cherish this just a second longer. But the warm's so tempting, and his eyelids are so heavy.  _This is a safe place to sleep_ , his brain tells him.  _Bruce will take care of you._

Awareness is slipping away, the world fading into nothing more than quiet breaths that blend with heartbeats.

Bruce will be gone when Tim wakes up. It's how the man operates, elusive as smoke. That's okay, though, because there's something else. It's probably a statement Bruce thought Tim wouldn't hear, words that'd instead be lost to the world of dreams, but Tim hears them. They're four simple things his mind registers as important. They're important, because they're meant for him, so he latches on and pulls those four things down with him to wherever you go when you're asleep, and he never forgets.

"…I love you too."

End.


End file.
